At 70
Ten feet in back of my Buick’s bumper
Was a biker,
Bare from his belt to his chin,
Except for a metal-studded leather collar
And Live Free or Else
Tattooed on his chest.
A casual Sunday out for a ride,
Drafting just ten feet back in my wake.
If a squirrel or a calico darted out
And I hit my brakes,
He couldn’t, fly-swatter-quick,
Have stopped short of me.
And wouldn’t Saint Peter be impressed
By his tattoo,
As he’d plead his case.
Were you complicit in your own demise?
The gatekeeper’d ask…knowing the truth.
And Live Free would nod.
Sorry,but you’ll have to spend 500 years
Standing in Purgatory.
Come see me then.